


A Summer Party

by TheRussianKat



Series: A Memory of Golden Curls [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRussianKat/pseuds/TheRussianKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire are getting ready for the party but are easily distracted. But what could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Summer Party

Grantaire smiled as he watched Enjolras on his knees digging through the cupboard. The view deserved an audience. 

“Stop staring at my ass,” the blonde scolded as he emerged triumphant from the cupboard holding the plastic bowls he had been searching for “we’ve got guests in twenty minutes and you’re not even wearing a shirt.” He wanted to send Grantaire to the bedroom to finish getting changed unfortunately it seemed being faced with his shirtless fiancé had shorted circuited part of his brain and he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

Chuckling as the blonde approached Grantaire entered further into the kitchen, taking the bowls from Enjolras as they met in the middle. He barely got them on the table before he found himself kissing the apparently exceedingly eager younger man. They fought for dominance, Enjolras pulling on Grantaire’s hair whilst the artist pushed him against the fridge then grabbed his wrists and held them above his head as he began trailing kisses down Enjolras’s jaw.

Enjolras keened and hummed as the artist leant in, his breath tickling the blondes ear “As much as I would love to continue this, we have guests arriving in fifteen minutes,” he muttered his voice husky, making 

Enjolras’s breath hitch in his throat. Then Grantaire pushed himself away placed a small kiss on his fiancés nose “Better put a shirt on!” he declared happily before leaving the kitchen.

“I hate you!” Enjolras shouted as he straightened out his own t-shirt, hoping that his jeans would feel slightly less tight by the time their friends arrived. 

“Aww, I’ll make it up to you tonight,” the artist called from the bedroom before emerging in a freshly ironed shirt though his hair did nothing to hide what they had been up to “And anyway, it’s not like you didn’t enjoy it.” He finished placing a chaste kiss on the blonde’s lips.

Enjolras pouted then took the bowls from the table “Where did you put the snacks and everything?” he asked as he began looking through the overhead cabinets.

“The snacks?”

“Yeah, you said you would pick some up on your way back from the gym remember?” the blonde explained turning back to his fiancé.

“Oh those snacks! Yeah yeah, those snacks, they’re on the shelf,” Grantaire said watching as Enjolras turned back to the cabinet “at the supermarket. I may have forgotten to pick them up,” he trailed off looking at his feet.

He winced as he saw Enjolras’s feet join his own and felt a finger lift his chin so he was staring the beautiful man in the eye “You are lucky I love you mister,” Enjolras scolded softly giving the older man a quick kiss on the lips before leaving the kitchen “I’ll be back in twenty minutes!”

“Hey, no!” Grantaire called out as he followed Enjolras into the entrance hall “Why don’t we just call Combeferre or someone? They can grab it on their way here, come on, stay?” he whined, threading his fingers through Enjolras’s.

“I am not asking our guests to cater our party,” Enjolras laughed “Twenty minutes, I promise.”

And with that he left. Grantaire was alone.

 

Their friends arrived in dribs and drabs over the next half hour, effectively pulling Grantaires attention from time. “One week R,” Courfeyrac announced, slinging an arm around the artists shoulder “One week and you will be tied to our dear leader forever. Have you thought this through?”  
Grantaire laughed pushing the smaller man off him.

“Don’t try and scare him,” Combeferre complained approaching the pair, putting an arm around Courfs waist pulling him close “This might be our only chance to get rid of Enj.”

“Does our dear Apollo know you speak of him this way?” Grantaire asked laughter tinging his words.

“Pfff, he wouldn’t care,” Courf said “We’re like family, he knows he can’t get rid of us and vice versa.”

“Exactly, life contract,” Combeferre smiled “And we are delighted to welcome you into it.”

 

The party continued with wine beginning to flow and conversation devolving into bad jokes and reminiscing the soon to be wed couple’s relationship. This was until Bahorels phone rang.

“I knew being on call tonight would be shit,” the man complained as he searched for his phone, smiling when he dug it out of one of his many jacket pockets “Hello?”

“Shit, really? Okay, yeah yeah yeah I know where it is. I’ll be there in five, I’m just round the corner anyway. Okay? Right, see ya.” He huffed out a sigh as he clicked shut his phone. “Sorry guys, I gotta go.” He gave Grantaire a quick – tough – hug before heading for the door “You never know, I may be back before midnight, if not send Enj my love okay?”

They all shouted various acknowledgements and agreements as the Bahorel left the apartment. Once the door was closed and the conversation had returned Grantaire felt a lump rise in his throat, suddenly very conscious that it was almost an hour since Enjolras had left.

Bahorel knew that agreeing to be on call tonight had been a bad idea. The moment he had woken up he had felt like someone was scraping his nerves with sandpaper and it was getting worse. He didn’t have to drive to the scene it was only a five minute walk behind Enjolras and Grantaire’s apartment, between them and the grocery store.

He could the ambulance and two police cars waiting for him. He took out his badge and flashed it at the two uniforms stood at the perimeter tape. As he got closer he could see the blue volkswagon crumpled into the lamppost and the man, no, the boy sat on the curb wrapped in a silver blanket shaking with something other than cold.

There were bags of crisps, popcorn and a few packs of beer scattered across the road. He carefully walked around the items “Hey Steve! What we got?” he called to his partner who was talking with the somber looking paramedics. He was a small man but stocky and if you knew him about as dangerous as a house cat. Normally fine but pissing him off was dangerous.

“Hey man, thanks for coming out. The kid was coming back from a stag party apparently, I mean we breathalysed him and I surprised the damn monitor didn’t melt.”

“Anyone hurt? I mean come on we’re homicide not traffic.” 

“Yeah, guy in the ambulance.” Steve said his tone dark “They called it about fifteen minutes ago. Reckon he probably died on impact.”

“Shit, we got an ID?” Bahorel’s heart sank, if there was one thing he hated in this job it was telling people that someone wasn’t coming home again. 

“Yeah we got his wallet, I mean we’ll need someone to officially identify him but it’s pretty damn clear it’s him,” he said handing Bahorel the wallet.  
He took the wallet, throwing a dirty look at the boy who was now vomiting on the pavement. As he opened the wallet he looked down and felt his heart stop. “Shit, no.” he whispered running a thumb over the photo of the happy couple smiling up at him. 

“I think I better see the,” body “err,” victim “the guy in the ambulance,” he said, surprised by the steadiness of his voice. He made towards the ambulance, ignoring the paramedics writing up reports on the steps.

The body was covered by a sheet. It’s too tall to be him, he was tiny, that’s why you always kept an eye on his isn’t it? Carefully he pulled at the sheet slowly pulling it down the body revealing a halo of wavy blonde hair. His hair wasn’t that light. It was darker. It was definitely darker. It isn’t him. He pulled the sheet further, nausea forcing him to close his eyes as a shock of crimson was shown matting some of the hair. 

He took good care of his hair. He would never let it look like that. It. Is. Not. Him.

He pulled the sheet a little more revealing two closed eyelids hiding what he knew to be sky blue eyes. He pulled it further until the lips were revealed, a mouth he could remember vividly delivering speeches which would bring the strongest to their knees. And suddenly he was on his knees next to the body of his best friends fiancé, tears pouring down his face as he gripped the wallet to his chest oblivious to the concern of his partner and the paramedics around him. Because they didn’t matter. The only person who did was on the gurney. And he was gone. 

 

An hour and a half had passed since Enjolras had left and Grantaire was now panicking. He had tried phoning repeatedly consistently getting voicemail, until thirty minutes ago when the message changed to ‘this number is currently out of service. Please try again later.’ 

Tired of waiting he grabbed his keys and began towards the door only to be stopped by Courf “He’ll be fine come on, he probably found a family of kittens to save or something. It’s Enjolras, he’ll be fine,” the man said his eyes betraying the bright smile beneath them. As he pulled Grantaire away from the door though, the doorbell resounded through the apartment.

Grantaire smiled, Enjolras dropped his keys, he thought. He dropped his keys and didn’t want to look like a prat so spent ages looking for them and has finally admitted defeat and rung the doorbell. But it was Bahorel who walked into the apartment when Courf opened the door. So why is Bahorel back before you?

“Holy shit man! Are you okay?” Courf asked looking at Bahorels red puffy eyes and shaking hands. The large man shook his head, his lip shaking as he tried to form words. 

The lump was back in Grantaires throat.

“Rel? You okay man?” the artist asked watching his best friend.

Bahorel wouldn’t look at Grantaire. He couldn’t look at him. He closed his eyes and thought of the photo in the wallet he had seen. That was good. It was a good photo. He would think of that. Except Courf was now crouching to see his face and he could feel his reassembled nerves steadily collapsing. “Courf?” he choked out “Get Ferre and meet us in the kitchen okay?” his voice was quiet and hoarse.

The lump in Grantaires throat was burning.

Courf left them alone to fetch Combeferre. “Come on,” Bahorel muttered walking towards the kitchen his shoulders slouched and his head bowed. He couldn’t look at him.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were already sat at the table both looking confused. When Combeferre saw Bahorel he was immediately on his feet ready to comfort the other man. But Bahorel just waved him off, hating how his throat tightened and tears weld in his eyes at the movement, his heart hammering against his chest.

Grantaire didn’t sit down. 

“What’s going on Rel?” the artist asked, ignoring the voice niggling in the back of his mind making suggestions. “Come on man, I’ve got to go and look for Enjolras. The idiot could get lost in the wardrobe, shit knows what he’ll get up to if he’s lost in town,” he joked, but his words were hollow.

“Enjolras ain’t lost R,” the words came out as an apology as the large man stared at the table cloth. 

‘Enjolras has spent twenty minute looking at table cloths HELP! R’

He ran his fingers over the chequered material. 

‘Suck it up man, marriage means sacrifice. Sacrifice means table cloths :D. B’

“Rel, what’s happened?” Combeferre questioned, his voice betraying his worry “How do you know Enj isn’t lost?”

“There was a car accident on Newport Road. That’s, shit, that’s why I was called out. Some drunk dumbass kid was driving and hit –“ his heart was in his throat. He couldn’t look at any of them. “He probably didn’t even see him, he just, he just went through him.”

He thought of the photo. Marius had taken it on R’s birthday. He ignored the pictures of the gurney flashing in the mind. “I am so sorry,” he gasped finally looking up at Grantaire who looked as though he may faint. “Enj just, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and he, I am so damn sorry R.” 

Courf was crying. Hands covering his face as tears tracked down his cheeks.

Combeferre was silent. His face cold and eyes bewildered. He didn’t know. He had absolutely no idea and he couldn’t feel a thing.

Grantaire stared at his best friend. The lump in throat was gone. And it felt like everything else may have left with it. “No,” he said, the one word shaking as it passed his trembling lips “No he went to get snacks. He is coming back. He’ll be back. He, he promised. He’s, he’s coming, he’s coming back damint!” he screamed his face red with anger.

“R, please?” Bahorel begged walking towards his friend, arms open “I am so fucking sorry, but he’s gone. He’s gone.”  
Grantaire howled in agony. Lashing out bottles flew from the table, crashing, smashing on the tiled floor as the man roared with grief. The three men watched in horror as the artist screamed and writhed, collapsed on his knees amidst the spilt wine, his face hideous as it contorted in pain. Red hot tears flowing down his crumpled face as his voice crackled and hitched with sobs.

Bahorel fell to his knees beside his friend and pulled him into a tight embrace. He could feel the tears soaking through his shirt and Grantaire shaking in his arms as the pain consumed him.

Their friends entered the kitchen drawn by Grantaire’s pain. Combeferre told them everything. His voice steady and eyes blank. Courfeyrac remained uncomforted beside him.

The friends cried. All broken by the single event. Each without a leader and each completely enveloped by grief they remained in the kitchen. Together in their loss but none of them could ever admit to having felt quite so alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so damn sorry....on the bright side....there's a sequel....


End file.
